


Like a Climbing, Coiling Vine

by mardia



Category: Gone Girl
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Dubious Consent, F/M, Future Fic, Misogyny, Panic Attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-25
Updated: 2012-12-25
Packaged: 2017-11-22 08:34:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/607878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I wake up in the morning in bed with Amy, her hand splayed over my chest, a five-point star resting right over my heart. (Futurefic, written as part of Yuletide Madness.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like a Climbing, Coiling Vine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Luna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna/gifts).



> Additional warnings: this story contains misogynist insults and highly dubious consent from one of the participants both before and during a sex scene, in addition to the fear of violence or retribution hanging throughout the story. (All of this is within keeping within the general tones of canon within the book, if you're looking for a scale to grade it on.) If you feel as though you should stay away from these themes for your own self-care--or for whatever reason--please do so.

_“In the middle of the night, I’ll turn to face him and press myself against him. I’ll hold myself to him like a climbing, coiling vine until I have invaded every part of him and made him mine.”  
\-- **Gone Girl**_

I wake up in the morning in bed with Amy, her hand splayed over my chest, a five-point star resting right over my heart.

Today is a relative rarity nowadays, the kind of morning when I wake up and I _remember_ , where the reality of the situation I am currently in hits me and I start to shake, panic coiling up in my stomach like a wound spring, my body going tense and still while I try and fail to control my breathing.

The worst part—the very worst part—is how rare these mornings have become. I am becoming used to this new reality, as relaxed as I can be when I'm married to a murderess who might easily kill me if I slip up, if I forget myself, if I forget the role she's written out for me in such exquisitely painful detail.

Amy's been a sound sleeper these last two years—no reason not to be, she's got nothing to fear at this point—but she must be more aware of my panic attack than I thought, because she shifts slightly, nuzzling at my shoulder before sighing out, "Go check in on Sam, baby."

It's a out, and I don't need to be told twice. 

*

We'd redone Sam's room about a year ago—it had gone from a cheery, gender-neutral yellow to cool blues and greens. I had put up glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling: Amy's suggestion, and I'd kissed her on the cheek and told her what a great idea it was. 

Sam loves them, of course. He loves almost everything so far, he's an easy, happy-going kid. No terrible twos, for him, no terrible anything. He sleeps and eats and shits right on schedule, his tantrums are rare and his smiles are near-constant. 

He is wonderful, my son, and it’s forever a surprise to me, that in two years of parenthood Amy and I somehow (knock on wood, salt over the shoulder, please oh God _please_ ) somehow have not ruined our son yet.

I slip into Sam's room, my footsteps quiet. Sam is fast asleep in his crib, the night-light still on, still illuminating parts of the room in the weak morning light. 

Sam's still fast asleep, his blond hair scattered against the pillow. For the first few months after he was born, I couldn't leave him alone, I had to sleep in his room, had to check in on him ten, fifteen times a night.

Amy had liked it, at first, it fit with the Nick she'd envisioned in _Amazing_ , that memoir that will haunt me until the day I die. My devotion to him, how determined I was to be a great dad, the best dad, it was all scripted to perfection in her eyes. Then, of course, right on cue, came the laughing observations: _Nick, are you going to stand there all night? Nick, he'll keep sleeping no matter how long you stare, you know. Nick, all you need is the fluffy hat and red uniform and you'd fit right in standing in front of Buckingham Palace._

I took the hint, and spent less time in Sam's room at night.

But today Amy's offered me an out, and whenever that happens, I'm a fool not to take it. So I come here, sit in a nearby chair and stare at my son's sleeping form until some—not all, but some—of the tension leaves my body, until I can think more clearly.

I've got the morning off from the bar, so maybe, if my darling cunt of a wife is in a generous mood, maybe I could take Sam out for the morning and hang out with Go, head over to the park, let Sam play on the playground. Normal stuff.

It feels like almost no time at all before Sam stirs, sleepily looking around before he sees me, and smiles happily. "Hi, Daddy."

I smile, easy, and say, "Hey, buddy. Ready to get up?"

There will be a day, not now, not any time soon, but someday—when my son will read his mother's book, and out of all of the lies that Amy has told, the lie that I never wanted kids is the one that I wish he didn't have to ever hear.

*

Amy, as it turns out, is in a very generous mood today. After a delicious breakfast, which I compliment fulsomely, and as I'm clearing the dishes and loading them in the dishwasher for her, she asks, "Oh babe, would you mind going to the store to pick up a few things on your way back from the park?"

"Sure thing, honey," I reply, and make a mental note to pick up some flowers on the way home.

Amy smiles at me, so bright and sweet, and I kiss her lightly on the lips, Amy smiling into the kiss.

I pull back first—I'm almost always the first to break our kisses off, it's something I need to work on—and look over at Sam, who's munching contentedly on a handful of Cheerios. 

"Ready to start the day, buddy?" I say jovially, and he beams.

Most days, I am very good at pretending that Sam and Amy don't have the same smile. Most days.

*

When Go meets us at the park, Sam's already on the swings, shrieking madly with joy while I carefully push him. 

"Hey, Go," I call out, and my twin smiles at me, and then waves at Sam. 

"Hi, Sammy," she says, and Sam chirps out a "Hi!" back, and then gets back to the more pressing news of going as high on the swing as I'll let him—not very high, as it turns out, because I'm the worst kind of helicopter dad. 

Go is easier around Sam, these days. When he was born, it was rough at first, because the whole tableau—me, Amy, and Sam all together, the happy epilogue to a Lifetime movie of the week—was too much for her to swallow. I've done my best to bring Sam to see Go when Amy isn't around, which helps. And of course, it's impossible to hate Sam, a fact I am grateful for every single moment of my life.

Go and I don't say much, just watch Sam on the swings, and then Go asks, too casual for it to sound real, "What's Amy saying about New York?"

"Not much," I lie. Amy's still dropping plenty of light-hearted hints about moving back to the East Coast, between her parents repaying her trust and the sales proceeds of _Amazing_ , we're doing pretty well, cash-wise. (The book had spent weeks at the top of the New York Times' bestseller list, and yes, I felt plenty of professional jealousy about that.)

I'm discouraging her on the idea as best as I can, but it's hard going, given that Amy has all the leverage, and I have none. That's what generally happens when you're married to a sociopath, I've found. Still, I’m trying, because even if the investigation is done and dusted, I like living in a city where there are at least two people who know exactly what kind of woman I’m married to. 

I’ll miss Go and Boney, if we leave. (When we leave.)

"Yeah," Go says, and I can tell she knows I'm lying, and that she knows I'm going to lose this battle too. She looks off into the distance for a while, and then pastes a smile on her face. "Hey, Sammy, you feel like going down the slides?"

Turns out Sam's all for it.

*

Sam and I eventually come back from the grocery store after our morning at the park, me with purple tulips in hand. Amy coos over them, giving both of us a kiss for our troubles. Purple tulips mean forever love, something I’m sure Amy will look up, if she doesn’t already know, and I figure she’ll approve.

 _Forever love_. God help me.

We spend a pleasant dinner together, and then I remark lightly that it’s just about time for me to head on over to the bar. “Have a good time, baby,” Amy says, sweet as honey. “I’m so glad the bar’s doing well—you’ll be able to hire more staff soon, don’t you think?”

I stiffen up, but my voice is pleasant. “We’ll see.” I kiss her on the cheek, and make myself linger a second longer than I should. “Be home soon.”

Once I’m outside, I take several deep gulps of the cool night air. 

I can’t remember the last time I took a clear and easy breath. I’m developing an ulcer, and my regular doctor is baffled, after all, the stress and trauma is long since over for the Dunne family, and there’s nothing left for me to fret over, right?

Right.

*

I get home at around two, coming into the house as soundlessly as I can, which isn’t very, especially compared to Amy, Amy and her soundless footsteps, how she moves as quiet as a whisper.

Of course—of course—Amy’s waiting up for me on the couch. “Hi, Nick,” she says with a loving smile, putting down the book she’s been reading. “Have a good night?”

Now why, I wonder, would she ask me that? “It went all right,” I say cautiously. “You didn’t need to wait up for me.”

“Oh, I wanted to,” Amy assures me, and my stomach clenches. She sets the book aside and stands up, surveying me with a smile on her face, the way an art collector looks at a piece of art they’d won at auction. “You look tired, honey,” she says softly, all concern. “Come to bed.”

“I will,” I say. “I just want to check on Sam first—”

“Sam,” Amy says, persuasively as she slides forward, as she slips her arms around my waist and holds me close, close like a boa constrictor clutching its prey, “—is fast asleep in his bed, I promise. And you need your rest, don’t you?” She places a kiss on the underside of my jaw, right where my pulse is thrumming. 

I surrender. “All right. Let’s go to bed.”

I think—hope—that’ll be the end of it, but as I floss and brush my teeth in the bathroom I can feel Amy’s eyes on me the whole time, waiting. Watchful. Most days I’m used to her constant surveillance, but today, my hands are shaking as I’m screwing the toothpaste cap back on. I’m good at those tiny details, these days. The cap on the toothpaste, putting the toilet seat back down, leaving my shoes at the front door once I come home.

But for whatever reason, today is one of those days where I can’t forget the big detail, about what kind of _thing_ I’ve married, what kind of _thing_ is the mother of my son, who’s sleeping only a few feet away, who is going to spend his entire life as the son of a—

“Nick?” Amy prompts.

I’ve brushed my teeth so hard that my gums are bleeding. I spit into the sink, the froth pink, and run the water until it all disappears. “Be there in a minute.”

Once I emerge, my breath minty-fresh, Amy settles back into the pillows, and for one blissful minute, I think that’ll be the end of it as I slip into bed. But then, oh then, she slides her arm around low around my waist, her hand just brushing the hem of my t-shirt. “I’ve missed you.”

My throat is dry. “Amy.”

Something in my voice must finally tip things over the edge, because Amy’s voice is no longer cloyingly sweet. “Nick,” she says, flat and calm, and how fucked up is it that it’s that tone from Amy that finally gets me to relax a little. “We’re married. Married people fuck. And I want to fuck my husband.”

She’s right of course. Amy’s always right. And as she’s saying this, Amy’s hand slips underneath my t-shirt, her delicate fingers skimming my skin, going up and down along my ribs.

I exhale, and Amy keeps going, kissing my cheek, my jaw, her teeth just tugging, playful, at my earlobe while she gropes my half-hard cock. 

And now, now maybe I can stop thinking, now maybe I will become nothing but my harsh breathing and the blood rushing in my ears, pooling in my dumb, stupid cock, and I become nothing but the tool for Amy’s desires. 

I’m hard, finally, and—still not thinking—I turn and move until Amy’s beneath me, the two of us fumbling and awkward as we take off our clothes, Amy’s skin smooth and soft beneath my hands.

For a moment, I think that this will be enough for her, and then Amy decides to start talking. “We’re doing so well lately, don’t you think?”

“Don’t,” I mumble, moving downward, licking at the hollow of her throat, mouthing at a nipple. Amy sighs, gripping my hair; I move my attention to the other nipple, licking until I can’t taste the sweat of her skin anymore, until all I can taste is my own spit, her nipple growing into a hard little bud beneath my tongue.

“You’re doing so great, with everything,” Amy murmurs, arching her back. “I knew you’d be perfect like this.”

I know not to react, I know it, I know it— “Like what?” My voice is a harsh rasp, my cock hard and straining against the sheets, trapped against the mattress. 

Amy places two fingers beneath my chin and tilts my head, and smiles down at me. “I knew you’d be perfect when you had to play the suffering, noble hero,” she says, her voice like a knife dipped in honey, sweet and cutting.

My pulse is pounding dully in my head. “Shut up.”

“But you like it so much, don’t you? Being here with me, knowing none of it is _your_ fault, not really, you can’t _help_ it, you were _forced_ into it, weren’t you, big bad Amy keeping you trapped—”

“Amy,” I say, and without realizing it, I’ve pushed myself up onto my elbows so that I’m looming over her. “Shut the fuck up.”

Amy looks up at me, a faint, pleased smile on her face. “Try and make me, honey,” she says, soft.

And so we fuck. We fuck, and she claws at my back, her nails gouging into my skin while she whispers poison into my ear, and I curse and strain above her while pretending that it doesn’t get me hard, that it doesn’t turn me on, that it’s not getting me off being with her like this, knowing what she is and fucking her _anyway_ —

Because she’s right, she’s always right, my lovely bitch of a wife is always right. I love being the hero, I love being cast as the protagonist in our tangled nightmare of a marriage, I love knowing that as bad and weak as I am, there is someone so infinitely worse than me.

In my most twisted moments, I can believe that I’m keeping Amy safe too, that as long as I give her everything she wants—and she wants _everything_ , believe me—then she won’t lash out, that she’ll be safe from herself, from her darkest impulses. It’s a lie, of course, Amy is nothing but her darkest impulses.

It's easy to believe that I'm the hero, only that and nothing more, and most days I'm very good at it.

Later, when we’re still catching our breath, sweat cooling on our bare skin while we lie there, the room stinking of sex, Amy sighs and nestles into my side. My back is stinging; there might be faint bloodstains left on the sheets, come morning. 

Amy’ll get them out though.

“I think Sam would like New York,” Amy confides into the darkness, her arm tightening ever so slightly around my waist as she says it.

“Yeah,” I say softly, and for the first time all day, I’m not thinking at all anymore, and it is a blessing. “I think he’s going to like it too.”


End file.
